


"so this is how liberty dies ... with aramis hanging from the ledge of a married woman's window"

by philthestone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, annes personal hero is padme amidala by the way. also she has watched pride and prejudice (2005), context who needs context, continuation of vieves brooklyn nine nine au, over two hundred and thirteen times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: Truly, Constance thinks, it must be auniquesight: four idiots dangling out a bedroom window in Louis de Bourbon’s perfectly nice back garden, breaking the law.Treville’s going to kill them when he finds out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a snippet from vieve's brooklyn nine nine/modern detective au, written in an effort to get myself feeling creative. the au and all plotty nonsense forthwith belongs to vieve; i'm just mucking around with it. basically -- this exists in the same universe as "rainbow valley".
> 
> reviews are limited edition collectible lightsabers and three chanel bags

Constance Baudin prides herself on being good at her job.

At least, that’s what she told Deputy Commissioner Richelieu in the aftermath of the attempted murder two weeks ago. The Deputy Commissioner had said, “I must confess I was shocked to hear the matter was dealt with so gracefully, Detective,” and Constance, who perhaps had been experiencing one of Aramis’s severe bouts of utter lack of self-preservation, had said, “I pride myself on being good at my job, sir,” in front of Captain Treville, the bloke from Major Crimes, and someone who she thinks might have been the DA’s assistant.

Thank God Richelieu has what Porthos calls a right perverted sense of humor under that mustache of his, else Constance might’ve lost her job right there for giving attitude to the Deputy Bloody Commissioner. 

“Constance, we are going to _lose_ our _jobs_.”

“Shush, Charles,” whispers Constance, squirming a little. “Porthos, d’you think you can get me up higher?”

“‘M standin’ as tall as I go,” Porthos whispers back, shifting his shoulders. “Is he still there?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” says Constance, words half a groan – the sort of thing that people do when they’re dismayed at the outcome of a series of unfortunate events that have piled upon each other in the least graceful way possible – and arches her neck. Of course, mathematics dictates that no matter how much arching her neck does, she is under no circumstances _actually_ going to see directly upwards and interiorly into the window of Anne’s bedroom, wide-open window notwithstanding. Constance was never very good at maths, which is a problem, she thinks. A very big problem indeed. A massive problem, actually – the sort that could result in collective death, or perhaps if they’re lucky arrest charges, or perhaps if they’re not lucky at all some sort of infanticide, which is just so _utterly_ morbid and _awful_ to think of and Constance mentally slaps herself for watching too many Agatha Christie adaptations in her spare time.

“This is _mad_ ,” says d’Artagnan again, planted in front of she and Porthos’s collective person, his voice coming out an odd mix between a hiss and a moan. “We’re supposed to _uphold_ the law, not _break_ it!”

“We’re not breakin’ nothin’,” says Porthos, casual despite the slight crack in his voice, which may be from the awkward angle in which Constance’s palm is digging into the crook of his neck. Constance once more tries to arch _her_ neck and accomplish the mathematically impossible; Athos’s voice, monotonous as ever, is still going steady in her earpiece. Athos, thinks Constance, is truly the best of them all.

“ _And then of course there is the neighborhood crime watch, which is a civilian-run organization that is supported by the local constabulary – you may see its credentials here, here, and here, on our human resources-approved pamphlets that I am free to distribute to you. If you would like to offer a donation, it would be much appreciated, Monsieur –”_

“This is _private property_ ,” says d’Artagnan.

“Shift me up higher, like, lift your shoulders –”

“Ow – your t-shirt’s caught on my earrin’ – you gonna grab the _vines_ , Connie, what’re you –”

“I’ve got to _see_ –”

“We are _trespassing without a warrant_ ,” says d’Artagnan.

“Aramis’ll be fine –”

“That’s not the p – _oomph_ – point, Porthos.” 

“Wait – stop squirmin’, lemme get some leverage –”

“In what way,” finishes d’Artagnan, still standing stubbornly in front of them, “is that _not_ breaking the law!”

One of the sleeves of his hoodie is pushed up to the elbow where the other is not; a lock of his too-long hair is hanging stubbornly in front of his nose; and there’s still grass stains on the knees of his jeans from where he slipped in the flower beds under the fence when they were first sneaking in over the garden wall. Like criminals, and not law enforcement officers, which they are _supposed_ to be, as d’Artagnan has pointed out repeatedly. He has some good points, thinks Constance, only then the voices floating out of the open window that she _had_ been hearing a moment before suddenly become audible again, and her heart stops in her chest. 

“… all alone?” She hears, in those same cold, oily tones that he always uses. “Only I thought I heard a noise.”

“Oh, that was nothing at all,” says Anne’s voice, clear and soft above their heads. Porthos has instinctively moved backwards to flatten them against the wall, and Constance bites her lip to stop herself from grunting when the back of her head hits the red brick of the wall. Beside them, d’Artagnan has thrown himself behind the white-painted gazebo, his neck, too, now arched to look up at the blasted window. “I must have accidentally bumped the bed, you see.”

“You must take more care of yourself, Anne,” says Rochefort’s voice, creeping like ice into Constance’s veins. She grits her teeth; under her bum, Porthos’s shoulders have tensed, and he twitches a little where Constance’s fingers accidentally tighten in his curls. “Pregnancy can be a tricky thing.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” says Anne.

Constance thinks that this is bad. 

Constance thinks that this is more than bad. 

Constance thinks that if her inability to achieve the mathematically impossible a moment ago was causing Captain-Treville-Is-Probably-Going-To-Kill-Us-If-He-Finds-Out-We’re-Snooping-In-The-Local-Rich-Folks’-Garden Anxiety, _this_ spells out the end of the world as they know it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” whispers Porthos, his voice strangled.

D’Artagnan shoots her a look that says something along the lines of, _Told you we were all going to die_.

 _Shut up_ , Constance looks back.

“ _Now, here, in our children’s junior academy day camp booklet, we have opportunities for children of all ages to experience the delights of law enforcement from a young age. Tell me, Monsieur, do you have any children?”_

 _“Er –”_ sounds Louis’s voice, muffled in Constance’s earpiece. “ _No – um, not quite, no, it’s – it’s a bit complicated, actually_.”

 _Ugh, Louis_ , thinks Constance succinctly. Which perhaps makes her a very terrible sort of person, as it is not _entirely_ his fault his wife is carrying another man’s child, but she has more pressing issues on her mind, just now.

“What’s he doin’ in her room?” hisses Porthos, from somewhere between her legs, which despite her once-upon-a-time rigorous academy training have decided to cramp up awfully after five minutes of sitting atop her co-worker’s shoulders. In the process of trying to make sure that her _other_ co-worker doesn’t get killed obtaining evidence against an all-around terrifyingly dangerous gang member with the help of her very pregnant best friend.

It’s days like these that Constance can’t decide whether or not she’s happy she became a cop.

“He’s a vile human being?” offers d’Artagnan in a strangled whisper from behind the gazebo pillar, his eyebrows – so very expressive – creased liberally in the middle. “More importantly, _where’s Aramis_.”

Which is right when Constance hears a decidedly muffled _thump_ float out of the bedroom window, and several things happen at once.

“What the –” 

(This is Rochefort.)

“Ow!” 

(This is Porthos, as Constance’s fingers clench in his hair.)

“Ooooh! OH! Oh my _God_ , the _baby_ just _kicked_!” 

(And this, Constance knows, is Anne, hollering _very_ melodramatically, sweet voice carrying straight out of the window. Constance can picture her in her blue silk blouse and white cardigan, very clearly, probably exaggeratedly doubling over and gripping the bedpost. Constance thinks with a bit of a hysteric edge that Anne really has watched far too many period dramas to be complicit in unauthorized detective work that could possibly get them all killed, if not arrested.)

“The – that was the baby kicking?”

A very good question, Rochefort, Constance thinks, whilst beside her, d’Artagnan, still pressed flat against the gazebo, buries his face into his hands.

“ _… the continued safety and security of your neighborhoods,_ ” Athos is saying, “ _in that you are always free to contact your local precinct in times of trouble, as is outlined here, in section twenty-seven B on this third pamphlet …_ ”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” says Anne’s voice. “In that it kicked and that caused my leg to reflexively kick out and knock the bedpost again.”

“He’s in the closet, isn’t he,” whispers d’Artagnan, sounding like a man doomed. “If we all get assassinated by the mob, I am going to take it _very_ personally.”

“Your leg,” comes Rochefort’s voice, sounding as though he isn’t sure to be incredulous or surprised. It is not a good voice on him, Constance decides. Then again, nothing much is a good anything on him. He’s just that sort of person.

“Pregnant women’s legs do that,” Anne’s voice informs them all. Constance, her messy bun squished behind her head against the brick, thinks that she does a dreadfully good job sounding confident about her pregnancy for someone who has been under house arrest for two weeks and attended half of her sonograms with _Athos_ , of all people. 

“I … see,” says Rochefort. 

He doesn’t sound like he sees. In fact –

“Wait!” says Anne, as though Rochefort had made a move towards something – or some _one_ , is her next heart-clenching thought – and Constance can _feel_ her friend cringe internally all the way up through that bedroom window as though they have a telepathic connection, which Constance sometimes privately feels they do – “do you want to – to feel?”

Constance hears footsteps getting louder, and a moment of silence.

“There,” says Anne’s voice, sounding very strained. “Isn’t it nice!”

“Yes. Very nice.”

Truthfully, the past day has been a bit of a blur, but there are a few events Constance knows with a certainty have happened in the last half hour. If Anne were here beside her, and not currently upstairs with a madman feeling her baby kick and her sort-of-boyfriend, not to be confused with her husband, hidden in the closet between the three Chanel bags and one plastic lightsaber, she would propose that they make a List. 

Which is exactly what Constance now does in her head. 

Event the first, occurring at sixteen hundred hours – four in the pee em, whatever, Constance can’t be bothered just now to list in military time just for the aesthetic: Detectives Baudin, d’Herblay, du Vallon and d’Artagnan managed the miraculous feat of climbing over the back stone wall that encloses the de Bourbons’ backyard garden. And it _is_ a garden, not just a backyard, with fruit trees and pretty flowers and _hedges_ and everything, which Constance personally thinks must be terribly hard to maintain. She can barely keep her potted cactus alive, which sits on the windowsill in their little apartment back home ten blocks away.

Event the second, at sometime close to four-oh-six: With a somewhat ungainly boost from Porthos, Aramis, who happened to be unnervingly good at the business of scaling walls and climbing through windows – Porthos says it is natural talent and Athos says it is a fulfillment of the universal principle, “practice makes perfect” – clambered through the wide-open window leading to Anne’s bedroom, both window and bedroom having been previously decided upon via phonecall to be open and ready for his lanky frame to tumble through. Anne, brave, _brave_ girl that she is, had assured them that she would have swiped the documents from Rochefort’s briefcase accordingly. Which must be a terribly tricky thing to do when you’re carrying a real live actual baby and sort of under house arrest. Constance thinks that she is really, _truly_ glad she never did anything so rash as to agree to marry Jaques early on in their relationship, lest she ever be stuck in a house with a pompous husband and a dangerous gangster who was manipulating said husband, whilst pregnant, during the hot month of July.

Event the third, at around four thirteen, a solid seven minutes and several muffled exchanges of soft and gentle affection above them _later_ : Constance was successfully lifted onto Porthos’s shoulders with the reluctant aid of her professional police partner, other best friend, and current roommate d’Artagnan, who at that time decided to commence a steady stream of dire predictions, which Constance personally thinks is a habit he’s picked up from Athos. D’Artagnan, Constance knows, would never be the sort of husband to be manipulated by dangerous criminals, thank God – but he _does_ leave the stove on sometimes, which in any other context would be a great burden but in the wake of everything else going on Constance really feels is quite forgivable.

Event the fourth, happening at exactly four sixteen on the dot: There was a muffled set of footsteps, some garbled whispers, and a loud thump from the window above them. Constance was officially concerned, Porthos tried standing on his tip-toes to lift her higher such that she could actually see what was going on, and d’Artagnan had transitioned from dire predictions to informing all of them that they were, in fact, _breaking the law_. Which was, as Constance has pointed out, an undeniable truth, only there are some things that are categorically more important than the law. Imprisoning the Living Embodiment of Evil – that’s what Aramis called him, sat on Constance and d’Artagnan’s couch not a week after he came back from sixth months undercover, describing Rochefort in a hoarse voice as the “living embodiment of evil”, _verbatim_ , which is not something that is putting Constance at ease now just as it did not then, her hands freezing in the middle of picking up the shards of ceramic littering the floor post mug-drop that accompanied her gentle announcement that, by the way Aramis, Anne's _pregnant_ – 

Well, Constance thinks, taking a deep breath. Some things are more important than the law.

If Captain Treville heard her say that sort of thing, Constance knows, he’d have conniptions. As it is, Athos nearly moved to Timbuktu two days prior because Constance and Aramis were resolute in their unlawful conclusions.

Most importantly -- Constance thinks now, having listed this series of very important events -- is the fact that Anne is unfortunately completely unarmed, in this house with the pompous husband and dangerous gangster. She _does_ have a plastic lightsaber in her closet that can be very painful when wielded appropriately as a club, though. You can never know when plastic lightsabers may come in useful, Anne had once told Constance serenely; Anne, Constance knows, has watched _Attack of The Clones_ more times than Constance can count on her fingers and considers Senator Amidala a personal hero. 

At any rate: God, as Aramis would say, might just be on their side.

“Grab my legs,” Constance decides. She can remember the grave “embodiment of evil” announcement quite clearly in her head, and Rochefort is _in that room_ , _with Anne_. It’s suddenly become the correct time for Decisions. “I’m gonna try to get my gun out.”

D’Artagnan, who is still straining his neck to look upwards, jerks now to look at her, eyes widening.

“ _Indeed,_ ” says Athos,“ _the safety of one’s community is paramount in the minds of law enforcement officers, under section seventy-two of the principal legislature Police and Civilian Act of nineteen fifty two. Of course these days we are much more closely involved with our local precincts, and sentiments of civility and amiability run high –_ ”

“I’ll jump,” hisses Porthos, “and you’re gonna grab the awning.”

“Right. And _don’t_ try to convince me otherwise,” Constance hisses in d’Artagnan’s direction. “She’s practically alone up there, he can’t know that Aramis is –”

“What if he’s armed?” snaps d’Artagnan, also hissing. They’re like a bunch of snakes, Constance thinks. The Animal Planet Channel could host a special programme on the lot of them.

“I’m not letting him get anywhere near her,” Constance retorts, determined, trying now to awkwardly swing her leg over Porthos’s head. “And anyways, if Aramis is in the closet, he’ll help if anything terribly bad happens.”

“The closet with the plastic lightsaber in it?” asks d’Artagnan in a weak sort of whisper, but he’s inching towards them pressed up against the wall so as to help give Constance a boost whilst simultaneously making the least amount of noise possible. It’s times like this that she really is glad that he’s her partner, because even if they’re all possibly going to die and he’s very peeved about it, he’ll still help give her a boost through Louis de Bourbon’s mansion window on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-July. “I knew this was a terrible plan.”

“Put your knee on my shoulder,” manages Porthos, getting a hand under her shin.

“‘M _trying_ ,” whispers Constance harshly, one arm flailing above her to grab at the awning. 

“ _– a bi-monthly outreach program that involves fair games, snacks, and complimentary police badge stickers happening on March the twenty fourth –_ ”

“ _That’s three months from now,_ ” points out Louis’s voice in Constance’s ear, sounding terribly bored and a little confused.

“ _Yes, that is what bi-monthly means in this context. Now, if you would like to attend_ –”

“ _I really don’t think I would, Monsieur –”_

 _“– you may sign here here or here, on this fifth departmentally issued pamphlet that I present to you free of charge_ –”

“You know, I really think I’m a bit tired,” comes Anne’s voice suddenly. Under the window, all three of them freeze. “I might retire early, take a little nap.”

“Indeed,” says Rochefort.

“Constance,” whispers Porthos.

“ _Wait_ ,” whispers Constance back, one hand grabbing at the flat brick wall, the other fumbling with her gun, one leg bent underneath her against Porthos’s shoulder. If her mother were here, she’d probably start lecturing her on un-ladylike positions.

There is a moment of silence, wherein Athos’s voice continues to drone in her ear and they all strain themselves to catch the retreating footsteps and the snap of a door closing.

A beat, and then –

“ _Santa_ Maria.”

Constance lets out a breath she was acutely aware of holding at the sound of Aramis’s mild voice; under her, she can feel Porthos sag slightly, and d’Artagnan drop his head back against the vines crawling up the wall in relief.

There’s a scuffling above them, and a few muted words, the volume of Aramis’s initial exclamation doused by fear and caution and probably, Constance thinks, if she knows her friends, whispered goodbyes.

It’s alright, Constance thinks. He’s going to climb back out the window, and they’re going to all troup back down the street into the battered yellow Bug that nobody’s really sure belongs to Porthos or Aramis, and Rochefort will be arrested by the end of the week.

“Thank God,” says Constance, no longer hissing. “Help me down, Porthos.”

God, however, has decided that it is a little early in the game to be thanking Him, because Porthos has scarcely adjusted his grip on her leg when there is another scuffle, and a muffled yelp, and then –

“What in the _hell_ –”

“Oi!”

“Bloody f –”

“ _Shhhh!_ ” rasps Aramis from directly above them, for that is where he now is, having all but tumbled out of the window a moment before. He’s hanging onto the awning with the very tips of his fingers, a yellow envelope held between his teeth, looking as uncoordinated as a man trying desperately to flatten himself against the wall when he really has no semblance of leverage at all and has just fallen out of a window. Anne’s little jeweled crucifix has caught by its chain on his ear and is dangling lopsidedly in his face, which has started to slowly turn pink from exertion, and stuck sideways through the belt loop of his pants is that old, cracked, limited edition special brand plastic lightsaber. Constance feels her hands jerk up of their own accord and grab the soles of his battered sneakers, which are skimming the tops of her shoulders.

If anyone were to walk into this garden _right now_ , Constance thinks, they’d be the next circus show broadcasted on live TV. She’s sandwiched between Aramis’s dangling legs and Porthos’s hunched shoulders, all three of them pressed flat against the wall, d’Artagnan having thrown himself forward in an effort to steady Porthos a moment before and now currently holding him in an awkward, angled embrace.

The lot of them, four idiots dangling out a bedroom window in a perfectly nice back garden, breaking the law. Treville’s going to kill them when he finds out.

“ _– Monday work hours, Tuesday work hours, Thursday work hours – there are no Wednesday work hours I am afraid, the civilian administrator did not bother to write them down_ –”

Nobody dares breathe. The footsteps get louder, and Constance can hear Anne’s voice, once more strained:

“I really don’t see what the –”

“I had assumed the hot air would be uncomfortable,” comes Rochefort’s voice from somewhere directly above them. “And the air conditioner is on. I merely came to assist you in closing the window.”

“How kind of you,” says Anne, in her Cold Voice. Constance would say something like, _kick his arse, luv,_ in really any other situation at all, but in the moment, says nothing at all and tries not to inhale too loudly.

They all look up, as slowly as they dare, neck muscles working such that they might lose a snail racing competition. A pair of arms reaches out, black silk sleeves covering them, and grabs the window’s edges. D’Artagnan bites his lip. Porthos squeezes his eyes shut. Above her, Constance is fairly sure Aramis is silently reciting the _Hail Marys_.

Rochefort closes the window with a resounding _thump_.

There is a beat.

“F’anks,” croaks Aramis, through the envelope in his mouth, looking down to where Constance is still gripping his hole-ridden converse with white-knuckled fingers.

“Don’t mention it,” says Constance. 

“I swear to all that’s holy,” says Porthos. “The next time we do this, we’re bringin’ a ladder.”

“Why,” manages d’Artagnan, “do you have a _lightsaber_ in your belt.”

Aramis spits out the envelope, which falls into the flower beds with a dull _thunk_.

“For protection,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

In the garden, a bird twitters loudly. Constance sighs.

“I really think,” says Aramis, fifteen minutes later, “that all things considered, that went quite well!”

They’re all sardined into Aramis and/or Porthos’s ancient Volkswagen, Athos at the wheel, halfway down the freeway and getting farther away from Anne every second. Constance shifts her bum on the worn suede of the seat under her, her detective badge digging into her hip, and resists the urge to put her head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Aramis,” says d’Artagnan, “don’t ever speak to me again.”

“Jesus Aich Christ,” says Porthos suddenly. Constance, who has stopped battling with herself and let her temple drop against the boney shoulder on her right, looks up. She can’t see very well across d’Artagnan, but she can picture Aramis’s weary look of disapproval in her mind’s eye. “Sorry,” says Porthos, from his spot in the shotgun seat. “Only – lookit these transaction records. This is some hard stuff – _arms_ dealing, for God’s sake. Guy’s a soddin’ lunatic.”

“I knew it,” breathes Aramis from d’Artagnan’s right, sounding like a man headed to the gallows rather than a detective who has finally caught his arch nemesis.

“Well,” says Athos, without intonation. “Good to know we’re all likely going to die. Porthos, grab my phone from the glove compartment, we need to brief Treville.”

“There any reason why you brought this many pamphlets along with you?” asks Porthos, the sound of rummaging abruptly filling the car. “Related – where’d you even _get_ all these pamphlets?”

From d’Artagnan’s other side, Aramis makes a small noise at the back of his throat. 

“Oh, yeah,” says Porthos. “Athos, mate, maybe for the sake of Aramis’s sanity, don’t say we’re all going to die.”

“Forgive me,” says Athos. “ _We in this car_ will likely die. Anne and the baby shall be perfectly safe.”

“Thanks,” croaks Aramis, while d’Artagnan sighs loudly and Porthos continues to rummage. Beside d’Artagnan, Aramis shifts in his seat, long legs bent awkwardly against the back of Porthos’s chair. Constance wonders if it is only her imagination that makes the seat-shifting sound stressed. 

“And I got the pamphlets from Joubert in human resources,” Athos says, as though suddenly remembering a question had been asked. “They were quite useful. Monsieur de Bourbon is easily distracted by bright colours.”

“That still don’t explain why you’ve got so _many_ ,” says Porthos, still digging through the glove box looking for the phone.

“The world is a dangerous place,” says Athos. “One must always be prepared.”

“Amen to that,” says Aramis. “Porthos, may I have the evidence incriminating Rochefort as a dangerous criminal madman, please?”

“Here,” says Athos, one-handedly taking the envelope from Porthos and tossing it to the backseat; it nearly hits d’Artagnan in the eye. “I suggest you brace yourself, my friend. Madame de Bourbon is undoubtedly the bravest woman in the world, stuck in that house with a man like him.”

It’s days like these, Constance thinks, that she is quite certain she’s happy she became a cop, if only for the chance to partake in the collective groan that the whole car engages in together. 

All for one, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> because i've had a few questions:  
> \- yes, louis does know that the baby isn't his  
> \- yes, rochefort is actually a dangerous gang member and has been manipulating louis into making Bad Decisions, as per canon  
> \- no, this is not following the same timeline of the show; imagine that the season two finale got spliced with the interim between seasons one and two of both THIS show and brooklyn nine nine (lmao, hopefully the six months undercover bit was clear)  
> \- thanks for reading!!! also, shoutou to vieve (@hansolosbutt) for letting me make a mess of things here


End file.
